


An Epilogue for Pansy Parkinson

by swords_and_words



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epilogue, F/F, i rated it teen because it mentions flicking people off idk, long winded tags sorry, pansy was a bitch in the actual series but i feel like she has so much potential going forward, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 07:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swords_and_words/pseuds/swords_and_words
Summary: There were many ways Pansy had expected her life to turn out. This certainly was not one of them. She won't complain, though.





	An Epilogue for Pansy Parkinson

**Author's Note:**

> First work I'm ever posting on here! Hope you like it :)
> 
> I hope this doesn't come across as copying the In Defense of Pansy Parkinson fic because I did not write this with that intention, but I do know they both have Pansy and Padma together and give Pansy an epilogue. If there are any other similarities, they are not intentional. It's been a while since I read that fic so I'm not sure how similar it is to this one or if any of that writer's headcanons unconciously influenced me when I wrote this one, but if that is the case, I apologize because I am not meaning to plaigiarise. Anyway, check that fic out if you haven't already because I remember it being really good!
> 
> Also since we don't really know which Patil twin died, I have made it Parvati for the purposes of this fic. Sorry, girl :(

If someone had told seventeen-year-old Pansy Parkinson that she would be here, she wouldn’t have believed them. If someone had told her that she would be living in her own modern flat, she would have scoffed. If someone had told her that she would be a fashion editor for Witch Weekly, she would have laughed. If they had told her that she retained only minimal contact with Draco Malfoy, she would have cried. If they had told her that her relationship with her parents was distant. If they had told her that she drank espresso all too frequently now. That her hair was short but her tone was not. That she would sometimes find herself venting to Luna Lovegood, of all people. That she would finally have her own cat. That Padma Patil was the one who bought her cat its collar. That Padma Patil was the one for her everything now. If someone had told her any of this, Pansy would have bitterly laughed and inspected her polished nails, the middle one of which she would stick up at that someone who dared to say something so preposterous.

But Pansy Parkinson did live in her own flat now. She had found that the stone walls of every traditional British home reminded her of those infernal school walls that she so dreaded, and so, upon moving out, she chose a sleek and modern apartment to suit her style. Or at least, the style she decided to strive for. 

Pansy Parkinson was a fashion editor now. Never for muggle clothing, of course, though she did admire some of their ideas, especially their business fashion. An internship at the Ministry had enticed her into flexing her abilities at working her way up the social hierarchy there for a few months, but she soon found the whole process was a waste. No one was going to listen to her so soon after the war, especially not with that Granger there, and she had absolutely had it with power struggles. She was done trying to please people. She wanted to please herself. 

She needed an outlet. She liked clothes. She liked looking put together even when she really wasn’t. She was good at it. She wrote about it.

Draco Malfoy had seen Pansy at the least put-together she had ever been. Now he barely saw her at all. Their friendship had been one of a dependency and desperation that was heavily cloaked from the outside world; just two scared teenagers bonded in a mutual struggle. To be good enough. To be bad enough to be good enough. To survive. To meet expectations, no matter how difficult. Now, those expectations were gone, and with them had left the urgency of obligation to one another. Draco wanted to wallow in the regret of what he had done; what he had been forced to do. He tried to stain-remove. Pansy wanted to move on. To start fresh. The two drifted. Pansy didn’t bother removing the stains of her past; she just bought herself some fresh robes and started again. She could certainly afford it. And damned if the world wasn’t going to let her wear them.

Her parents were disappointed, but not upset. They felt let down that their daughter was not going to live up to be the grand social climber that they had been preening and prepping. But, given the situation, the fact that Pansy had even found some path of success was enough to satiate them. However, it still would not stop them from slipping in how she could be doing “just a little bit more with her life” at the dinner table every night, which is exactly why Pansy distanced herself. They were the ones who had plagued her with those harmful expectations for years upon years, never caring what it did to her, so she stopped caring as well. Mummy and Daddy’s little princess was now an occasional mail correspondent to provide check-ins, and everyone was more relieved that way.

Pansy Parkinson drank espresso now. Hogwarts never had it during her school days, though it would have helped her through those late nights spent fretting in the dormitories a great deal. She had always taken her tea black. Now it was black coffee. She liked it better that way. There were no leaves left in the last dregs of it to be read, no future to be dictated for her. It simply gave her drive and focus. Not that she had ever lacked those things. But it made her sharper, and she liked that.

Her tone, however, was no longer sharp. Pansy had also had her fill of spreading vicious gossip and initiating arguments with cutting remarks. All it did was trap her in an endless cycle of telling people they weren’t good enough while she got told the same in return by her parents and the rest of their Death Eater cohorts. Now, Pansy kept her voice in the realm of sarcasm, and every once in a while she would tear a certain design to shreds, but she would do so elegantly, through her pen. She was done being petty. She wanted prestige. No more cat and mouse games. 

She kept the haircut. It was professional. It looked put together.

Luna Lovegood was a mouse. Pansy was, in fact, still a cat, but not one who initiated scuffles or lashed out with her claws; simply one who cleaned her own fur to perfection in the corner. They played no games. They simply talked. Seeing that Luna was taking charge of editing The Quibbler, as the war had deteriorated her father’s mental state significantly (if it could get any worse than the eccentric levels it had always been at, Pansy thought), Luna was often at many of the same editors’ gatherings that Pansy attended. When Pansy got bored of performing the complex social dance with the other party guests, she could always find Luna daydreaming off by the refreshments or any sort of window. Pansy expected there to be some sort of tension between them; some sort of grudge. After all, the father of Pansy’s long-time best friend was the owner of the very dungeon that Luna had been locked in for months on end during the war. Not to mention the number of times Pansy herself had referred to Luna as “Loony.” But, as Pansy had recently come to realize, the whole world was loony, so what did it matter. 

Luna never judged. Pansy appreciated that, as the entirety of her own life seemed to revolve around judgement and she needed some respite from it. Luna listened. Luna thought. But Luna never held a grudge. Luna was also the only person she ever drank tea around. Despite Luna’s proclivity for theories, she never once tried to read into the tea leaves. Sometimes, Pansy realized, it takes an upside-down person to make sense of an upside-down world. Sometimes the person with the best head on their shoulders is the one whose mind is always in the clouds.

Pansy befriended another cat. Her parents never let her have one when she was small; they insisted it would be too much to take care of. Pansy just suspected they wanted something to be able to hold over her head as future incentive for going along with whatever they told her to do. The cat was black, which Pansy liked, because, as modern as she made herself, she was still very proudly a witch. She liked to remind herself of that. She named it Circe because Pansy had a certain admiration for magical women who turned meddling men into pigs.

Pansy did not expect to have a certain admiration for Padma Patil. Pansy did not expect to bump into her in the ministry library while they were both searching for books on astronomy; Pansy for recreational reasons, and Padma for reasons involving her career. Pansy did not expect Padma to be cordial to her, or to strike up a curious conversation. Pansy did not expect to get caught up in the middle of a discussion with her about centaurs and how they interpreted the stars, least of all to actually listen to it. But Padma made her want to listen with the way she spoke so matter-of-factly about the subject, yet still showed obvious interest in it. The way she did not expect or pressure Pansy into pretending she felt the same interest. 

Pansy did not expect Padma to drink coffee, much less to invite her out for it. 

Pansy expected Padma to read the tea leaves, like her sister used to. Padma did not. Padma did not talk about her sister. Pansy did not have a dead sister. Which is why she did not expect to be the one crying over coffee when the topic turned to the war. Pansy never expected crying. It always just happened. What Pansy really did not expect was for Padma to follow her into the bathroom and promptly hand her a tissue and a crystal that was supposed to promote calm. Pansy did not expect Padma to calmly stroke her back as she quietly sobbed over the sink. The only person Pansy set high expectations for anymore was herself. That way, no one could let down her expectations and she would no longer have to try and meet anyone else’s. But Padma broke her expectations. Padma was the first person to stay with her through the tears since Draco. 

And Padma continued to stay. For more early morning coffee dates. For reviewing and spell-checking Pansy’s articles in Witch Weekly before they were published. For catching glimpses of the constellations off of the terrace of Pansy’s flat. For going on architectural tours with Pansy in the French countryside. For finding more old astronomy books to go through. For curling Pansy’s hair before galas. For later going with her to those galas. For forgiving her. For defending her. For depending on her. For pushing her to be better. For picking out a light blue collar for her cat. For Pansy’s everything. For reaching across the kitchen table to gently twine Pansy’s fingers through her own. The nails Pansy had once chipped away at while wracked with nervousness in a dark dormitory or her childhood home were now perfectly polished, just like her. And they were always right where they were supposed to be; either writing an article or intertwined with Padma’s own fingertips. Padma expected no less. 

Some expectations, Pansy thought, you could grow to accept. She stuck her polished middle finger up to the world, and Padma made sure it never chipped again.


End file.
